The Convenience of Comfort
by FrankandJoe3
Summary: Sherlock receives a pair of bulldog slippers in the mail and the Baker Street Boys are called on for a case.


**This was actually done for an assignment in English. We had to write a creative story, first person, based on a pair of shoes. I picked some absurd looking bulldog shoes and made it into a Sherlock fic. I apologize for how out-of-character it is. **

**Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I do not own it. **

* * *

Sherlock's POV:

People tend to be exceptionally dull when it comes to arranging their ideas. Some will jot them down absentmindedly and stuff them away into a notebook where they will be lost until a farther date. Others buy file cabinets and sort them away by letter, or scrawl them on post-it notes and stick them wherever they find most convenient. That's why I've always wondered what it's like in their tiny, simple minds.

For me, it's always been easy. With my eyes closed, I have everything I'll ever need to know stored away in a section of my mind that can be retrieved in a matter of remembering where I've placed it. My Mind Palace, as I've deemed it, has helped me more than any living being I've ever come in contact to. London's a map to the base of the stairs. My flatmate's mannerisms are stored in a green book off in the library matching in tint to his eyes on the days he doesn't want to bludgeon my head in. The only inconvenience I've run into with it is space. Some things need to be deleted, and then I'll find myself having gone a week or two without food. That's why I needed to take on a flatmate, according to my brother. Someone had to make sure I wouldn't get lost in 'that thick skull of mine'.

I left my Mind Palace as I heard footsteps on the stairs and sat up when I recognized the weight shifts, moving over to my chair as John Watson entered the flat. What he lacked in genius, he made up in-… a box?

"Came for you," the blond explained, turning the package over in his hands before tossing it my way.

Once I caught it, I was quick to rip it open. Beneath the white paper lining the inside were large slippers. I pulled them out, tossing the box somewhere behind me and looked them over: size 11 ½, front crafted to resemble a bulldog with his teeth poking out above his lip, a relative softness with an age implied from not only the weathering but also a tag tucked inside. Giving a little smile, I slid them on over my feet and reclined back in my chair. I felt John's eyes on me before I slipped back into my mind. With a huff, I gave a questioning hum, cracking one eye open. His eyes were on the slippers.

Before I could begin to explain, he held up his hand. The irritation wore off immediately. John Watson was a lot of things: a veteran, a doctor, a blogger, a friend—but he'd never been one for deducting.

"Let me guess. Experiment?"

From the sour tone, the irritation wore back. That was such an _obvious _answer. I'd been known to do spontaneous experiments around the flat. It was almost expected of me, yet he always found the time to get mad about them. Yes, the eyeballs were needed in the microwave. The head _had _to go in the fridge—where else would I put it? I only set the bed on fire that _one _time. I needn't go on.

"Hardly," I shook my head when he didn't make any other attempts to guess. "They're comfortable."

I didn't need my eyes open to feel his eyes roll. As he sat across from me, newspaper rustling in hand, I could hear him grumbling about my choice of attire as well.

"You can't just wear a robe all day, Sherlock," he said under his breath.

Elbows to the arms of my chair, I put my fingers together and rested them on the cleft of my lip.

"If I'm not leaving the house, what's the point of dressing?"

"Decency, for one?" he offered.

"Dull."

There was a laugh on the edge of his sigh this time and I swallowed a smile, enjoying the silence of the flat while he took to reading the newspaper. It was all gossip. It wasn't like he was going to find us a case in there. Even death and suicides couldn't make the headlines anymore, what with he-said-she-said gossip going around.

"Did you hear about Marcy up the street?"

I lowered my hands. Of course I heard. If he had, there wasn't a way I wouldn't have. We shared a flat, for God's sake.

"Boring."

His newspaper lowered.

"It's a murder case, Sherlock. It could get us out of the house."

I sighed. People like to think that they're smart, but then they just don't think.

"Suicide," I scrunched my nose up and got to my feet.

His eyes followed me as I crossed to my violin stand.

"It's obvious," I shook my head, running the bow through my curls absently.

"I see."

As I picked the violin up, I looked back his way and gave a sarcastic smile. "You don't."

"I don't," he echoed me.

I leveled the violin beneath my chin and raised the bow over the strings, eying them as I slowly tested the tuning with a lazy stroke.

"Her face was bloated. That could indicate strangulation, but the bruises on her neck were too solid. If she were," I paused tightening the strings in distaste, "strangled, there would've been a mark from the thumbs against her throat." I pointed the bow his way, smile growing cynical in fashion. "Want me to demonstrate?"

He shook his head, raising the newspaper up again. To fill in the silence, I guided the bow over the strings and just _thought_, the music seeming so much more distant.

"This is new," I barely caught John, probably his fourth time repeating it by the expression on his face, "Who's it for?"

I lowered the violin back to its case. "Customer."

He tensed immediately. "What?"

Near on cue, the doorbell rang down below us. My smile grew a lot wider at the wonder on his face. I loved that, admittedly. Most people would call me a show off, or something similar that was a lot ruder, but John was always impressed. People said my mind was my strong point, but no, it was my friend.

"Get the door, will you?"

John turned on heel without question and jogged down the stairs to the front door while I took a seat in my chair again. When the footsteps returned, even with John's overlaying them, I recognized the ranking and occupation near immediately.

"Sergeant," I greeted our guest, worrying the blue fabric of my robe's trim between my fingers.

"I'm afraid we need your assistance."

The man was certainly younger than John and I, possibly in his mid-twenties, but his smile seemed to age him. He had served, more than once from his decorations. A case! Great, I was about to fetch John's gun to get the wall again.

"John, get your gun," I waved my flatmate off, climbing to my feet and adjusting the slippers.

The blond made his way up the stairs to his room with a little nod, even as the soldier in our door gave a disapproving sound.

"Just you, Mr. Holmes," he stressed.

I couldn't help but smile. "I'd be lost without my blogger."

"There's only room for one more in the helicopter," he frowned.

"Then it looks like you'll need a cab. John?"

* * *

The ride over was dull and dragged on for a while too long, but John seemed to enjoy being around those of rank, so I leaned back and held my tongue. Nothing of our job was discussed the whole ride over, even after we landed and got out of the helicopter.

I could sense my friend's unease from the moment we stepped out of the helicopter; mostly because I was feeling it too. We were in a bad part of Scotland, from the looks of it. I hadn't paid attention on the ride over. It seemed to be a ghetto of sort, but amazingly deserted. John moved his gun to his coat pocket, keeping it close. I tied my robe.

"What's this all about?" John asked as we were led along the empty buildings, trained eyes darting everywhere for head or hair of anyone out to hurt us.

If you're ever to take on a flatmate of your own, I highly recommend a soldier. After the night terrors wear off in the first few weeks, they grow to be quiet convenient.

"I'm not high enough to know the exact details," the tallest of our escorts admitted, gun out in his hands, "but our superiors stressed its importance that we get Mr. Holmes out here as fast as we could. It seemed to be a matter of life and death."

I rolled my eyes at the phrasing. If it were that serious, my brother would've sent word to me long ago.

"Whose life?" John asked.

There wasn't an answer for him. Not too much farther along, gun shots dispelled us to opposite sides of the road. I followed John from habit and the soldiers took refuge in what must've been a bar at some point.

"Sherlock!" the blond hoarsely cried, relaxing once he found me beside him, drawing his gun out, "What in the bloody… We have to get back to the helicopter."

I gave a little nod, eyes darting fast over our surroundings. The gunshots had come from a building not far from our positions. A second floor from the echo, and a lower class rifle from its hollow— not quite a sniper, but they were cutting it awfully close. We looked over and met eyes with the soldiers across from us. I was at a loss, one thing I prayed John would leave out of the blog post about our 'adventure' here, but he had the grandeur of a soldier still clutched tight with the trigger.

A few hand motions on his part had the soldiers giving a nod and hooking a thumb towards our way out of here, making another few gestures before heading _away _from the helicopter. I stared. If this was their way of escape, I could only hope there was another helicopter their direction.

"They'll cause a distraction. We need to get to the helicopter. I'm not good, but I had a bit of training off base," John explained to me in a coarse tone.

I nodded and turned to follow. Just before we could step out from the safety of the concrete wall, a well-aimed shot had our only way of escape going up in heavy flames. The sound had me ducking, but John went immediately to guard. That sort of sentiment would kill him some day, I was sure of it. There wasn't room to panic though. We had a confirmed sniper and a would-be on different ends of the street. A sniper nearly guaranteed a platoon of five accompanying alongside, as seemed to be the procedure with rebel groups—which I guessed them to be.

Unarmed, I felt a little out of ease. John seemed far from it. His posture had snapped back and it was as though I was seeing him in his prime, gun cocked and features hardened to that of stone.

"Seven confirmed to the bar's second floor, two snipers, possibly four from movement to our six, and I'm beginning to suspect we'll be given company in a few minutes," he spoke to me as though I were a lower ranked soldier, meeting my eyes with an almost foreign look, "I'm going to need you to get to the second floor and take refuge while I try and even the odds. There should be a supply closet. As for the stairs…" he took a peek behind us and saw the rubble that served as our route to the upper floor, "I'm going to need you to climb."

"I can't."

His features melted back to the blogger who always seemed the slightest bit fed up with me, but it didn't help like I thought it would.

"Why, pray tell, is that?" he all but snarled.

For a moment, I thought he was going to shoot me. I gestured to my attire. Perhaps the bulldog slippers weren't the best option for getting out of this alive. I had a hard enough time keeping traction while walking, let alone attempting to scale a broken wall. When he noticed, his shoulders slumped and he gave a low groan.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock!"

"Hardly."

He almost cracked a smile, sobering up quickly.

"We're being shot at," he stated.

"Obviously."

His glare cut short at footsteps and he grabbed my arm before I could protest, pulling me after him through the rubble of the stairs. He served as a quick ladder of sorts and I used him to scramble up to the next floor, dropping a slipper in my efforts. Before joining me, he threw it at my head.

"At least two closing in downstairs. Got your mobile?" he leaned back against what looked like a freezer, brushing back his hair as he peeked down a hole in the floor.

I shook my head. "At the flat. Yours?"

John's forehead tightened before he slipped his phone from his pocket and handed it over. I didn't waste any time, picking up what he was suggesting and quickly dialing my brother's number. As the basic head to the British Government, I figured he could do a little in helping us out of this.

"Brother, dear…" I put on a little smile as he picked up.

I heard a soft sigh. "I hear gunshots. Please tell me you're not taking it out on the wall again. Everything alright?"

I scooted back to take John's place as he climbed to his feet slowly.

"Fine, fine."

"Sherlock," my flatmate spat back angrily, eyes narrowed tight at me.

I gave a little sigh. "We _might _need some assistance. John and I have made… popular targets of ourselves. I need at least one sane witness to prove that what John's about to do is all in self-defense. I can't have my blogger in prison."

Mycroft gave an exasperated noise. "Christ, Sherlock—"

I scooted back against the metal as John climbed down the hole, following the gesture he made. "You and John both today with trying to make me messiah… Pardon if I decline."

"I'll send some men to your location. Do try to not get killed."

I rolled my eyes. "Dull."

I hung up and slipped the phone into my robe pocket, getting back from my hiding place to crawl over to the staircase gap. I couldn't see John from this angle and it worried me in the slightest. There had been a few gunshots after he had went down, but it was quiet now. Crawling to a different gap in the floor, I peeked down and caught sight of his abandoned Browning. My head spun for a moment.

Carefully, I crawled back down to the ground floor, taking refuge in the rubble to litter the floor. It was enough to get me an angle on where my friend was. If I had any heart before, which I've been reliably informed that I didn't, it would've certainly sank right from my chest at the sight. He was forced to his knees, a gun pressed to the back of his head by a man smirking wide up at the above floor. He was waiting for me. This was supposed to be a show. Make me watch my… John die. It grew hard to breathe, but I managed to sneak over enough to take the Browning from the rubble and stuff it into my robe pockets with my hands.

As I stepped out, John gave a desperate shake of his head, begging me to go back with a glance. I couldn't.

"Ah, Mista' 'olmes," the gunman gave me a grin, shifting the gun angle so it pressed tighter to my friend's head, "jus' in time."

I was surprised I hadn't shot myself in the leg yet from the grip I had on the gun.

"Why are you doing this?" I looked at the man, searching his face.

Early twenties, advanced marksmanship, no proper military training, but the gyms had certainly seen enough of him, parts his way from society from the way he cuts and styles his own hair, tattoo to the lower forearm suggesting a gang of sorts—capable of murder.

"Oi, ca't a fella ha'e a ri't ol' time? What do y' say, Mista' olmes? Up fo' a bi' o' fun?"

My insides gave an ache and I looked down at John. The look on his face immediately told me of the man approaching behind me. I shook my head, looking up at the ceiling with a sigh that shook more than I'd like to admit. John Watson is in danger, my only thought. John Watson is in danger. Then, I had it.

"Your kind of fun seems… dull, wouldn't you say, John?"

The blond looked up at me, brow drawn in tight.

"In fact…" I gestured to the gun I had on me and his smile twitched. "Vatican cameos."

A code word we had made up, initially meaning 'battle stations', it did its part. John forced himself flat and brought his knees out to his captor's ankles, toppling the man as his guard had been let down. I brought back my elbow and managed to sway the gun's aim, a bullet landing not far from my foot before I landed one in my captor's thigh. I turned back to see John ramming the butt of the man's rifle against his temple and I followed suit, beating the man behind me with the front of the Browning.

As the two men collapsed, we kicked their guns off and took off to take shelter behind a large section of toppled wall, a distant sound of helicopters in the distance bringing a relieved sigh to my lips. We leaned against the wall, John's choice of relief phrases being worthy of a sailor. When he looked at me, his grin was sore, but a laugh was there where it fit perfectly.

"We … went against men… with _guns_… and you're in your bloody robe," he said before snickering.

I couldn't help but crack a smile, rubbing my elbow carefully.

"Don't forget the slippers," I gestured.

He leaned forward onto his knees with a laugh, holding his mouth. "And slippers. Christ…"

When the helicopter landed and the shots ended, we made our way from hiding and met up with the men who were to escort us out. I was allowed copilot, and John opted to sit back with one of the survivors. He had some 'questions', and we knew to look the other way.

By the time we landed and the blades of the helicopter stopped roaring above us, I caught up with John to see what he found out. The blond seemed ultimately pleased with himself.

"You'll never believe this, Sherlock, but…" he had to look away with a grin, "they thought you looked so bloody ridiculous in your robe that they didn't take you seriously. Your… _laziness _saved us!"

I couldn't help but crack a smile.

"See, John? Comfort has its conveniences."

* * *

**-F.J. III**


End file.
